million dollar man (and woman)
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Darcy Williams and Emmett Woodhouse go way back. [birthday gift crossover for a Tumblr friend. Fixing on the Hour/Match 'verse-Jane Austen genderbent.]


"Damn it all, Williams. I came here to have some _fun_."

"Nobody's stopping you."

They size each other up. Darcy is twenty-four, which means that Emmett is twenty-one, and they haven't seen each other in two years. Darcy lifts her Hermès off the nearest stool and tilts her chin.

He slips in beside her, rests his elbows on the bar, and grins. "You really pull focus," he says. "Doom and gloom and—not going to lie, great shoes."

Darcy does not dignify this with a response, directly. "You're graduating." An observation, not a question.

"With an _art_ degree," Emmett drawls, like it's the best joke in the world. She doesn't buy this. Underneath all the spun-sugar swagger, Emmett cares. "And you're a lawyer?"

"Not yet."

He's in Connecticut for school. She's in Connecticut, not because she wants to be, but because she has just headed a crisis off at the pass.

(It isn't over yet.)

Emmett says, just lightly enough that she can hear the concern, "Still look like you've been through shit."

"Nice."

"But you _look_ amazing. Spill the secret of your moisturizer."

It's the first time in weeks that she's almost smiled. "Are you going to order a drink?"

"Hmm. Yeah. I'm twenty-one now." He says it very proudly. When they met, he was nine and she was thirteen, and their fathers were talking business, as though two years later they wouldn't both be dead.

Darcy swirls bourbon in the bottom of her glass and wishes that her life was something she wanted to talk about.

Fortunately, Emmett has never been lacking the gab department. He tells her about his friends, none of whom are as memorable as the way he talks about them, and his mother, who is always sick with something or other, but who doesn't call as often as Darcy would have expected, and—

"How's Grace?"

The tips of his ears turn pink. Darcy controls her expression, but is satisfied to have scored a point nonetheless.

"Saw her at Ike's wedding." Emmett is suddenly fascinated by the bottom of his glass.

And yet—in another moment, he is wheeling on full-speed, a dozen anecdotes crammed into a few flourishes and turns of phrase, and Darcy thinks, _he doesn't know_.

She's no expert, but even _she_ knows.

"Good to see you," he says, when an hour is up and Darcy has forgotten, for once, to order a second drink.

"You too," she says. Their eyes meet in a strange moment that strikes her with the terrible certainty neither of them is happy.

The last time they _were_ is somewhere lost in the distance of thirteen and nine.

.

"Who the hell is that?"

And yes, maybe Darcy should have warned him. Emmett _does_ make quite an entrance, especially when, as now, he's wearing a floral jacquard suit that's likely fresh off the runway.

"Old friend," Darcy says, before Eli's frown can deepen much further. Then, bluntly, "Can't promise you'll like him."

Short version: he doesn't. Humor like theirs is positioned a few arrow-points apart. They fly right past each other. Eli's probably itching to throttle Emmett before twenty minutes have passed, and it's lucky that Emmett's champagne flute is already empty, or it might end up drenching Eli's shirt.

Darcy is just amused. She gets to be amused these days.

Fortunately, Grace appears just in time to wrangle her husband. "You boys behaving?"

"He's a writer," Emmett says. "You know. The boring artists."

"Oh, shut up," Darcy says, and just as Eli looks pleased, she adds, "You too."

Grace laughs. Darcy, who has only met her twice before, likes her even more. She's so different from Bing—calm and steady where Bing is rush and light and sparkle—but a gem nonetheless. "This is a very nice restaurant," Grace says. Of course it is; Darcy and Emmett would settle for nothing less. "And I plan to enjoy my dinner."

.

"So what was your problem?" Grace slips her earrings out and sits down on the edge of the bed, where Emmett is stretched out, catlike. "You're not jealous of him."

"Obviously not." Emmett lifts her hand and kisses the palm. "He just…"

"Is too much like you?"

"We're _nothing_ alike."

"He is a bit more brooding," Grace agrees, which makes Emmett very indignant indeed. She hides a smile. Emmett always _wants_ to be brooding, but he gets bored too soon to make it stick.

"He's—" Emmett tousles his hair with his fingers and changes course. "I just want him to be good enough for her. She's pretty great, even if it's hard to tell."

"It's not hard to tell," Grace assures him. She knows how far back his odd-couple friendship with Darcy Williams goes. How much, strangely, they have in common. "And really, Em, I think he is. I think he loves her a lot."

"How do you tell? You always…you always _know_."

"He looks at her like you look at me," Grace murmurs, and leans down to kiss him.

.

"I still think he's arrogant."

"Well," Darcy points out, "So am I. Doesn't bother you anymore."

Eli smirks at this, because it's true. "Only Fitz gets to wear suits like that. It's law."

"Emmett is an acquired taste," Darcy admits. "But he's very loyal. And hilarious. If you can tolerate him."

Eli perks up. "So he annoys you?"

"All the goddamn time."

(She says it very fondly.)


End file.
